


serve and protect

by b_minor



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cops, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, But also, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6215902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_minor/pseuds/b_minor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shirabu Kenjirou just wants to graduate from the police academy and have a comfortable life working as a community officer. One ill-advised detour through a park at night, he meets Ushijima Wakatoshi, who may or may not be a gang leader. Who most likely has some issues with personal space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [Reffie](http://tendousatori.tumblr.com/)!!
> 
> HELLO THERE AND HAPPY RAREPAIRS! Do enjoy~ (And um. Look forward to more...chapters...THE TITLE WILL MAKE SENSE IN TIME. I HOPE.)

Kenjirou’s breathing is slightly heavy, warm enough to condense the freezing night air as he exhales. Strands of hair are sticking to his forehead and he’s in a pretty shit mood. Some detached part of his consciousness catalogues various ways his body’s flight-or-fight response has kicked in: increased heart rate, tension in his muscles, and palms clammy with sweat. That and a few other things, but he hadn’t paid much attention during his physiology class.

A pair of would-be muggers are sprawled at his feet, moaning softly in pain. He briefly considers reporting the incident to officers at the nearest _kōban_ , but thinks better of it. It’s cold. It’s late. He just wants to get back home. He rubs his knuckles, slightly chafed, and looks forlornly to the plastic bag he’d tossed to the side earlier; the clumps of rice from the convenience store bento now strewn across the ground. He’d skipped dinner to study for exams and had been looking forward to eating that. He turns away from the mess in favor of picking up the knife one of the thieves had tried to use. It folds itself closed with a soft snick, and he contemplates the best way to get rid of it.

“Are you alright?” 

He wasn’t expecting more company. 

The voice, deep and resonant, is surprisingly calm in tone considering the tableau. Kenjirou tilts his head towards the new arrival, a towering figure whose shadow stretches from beneath one of the park’s few lamplights. His face is hard to make out, hidden beneath the hood of a gray jacket. It was possible that this guy was a third thug. Kenjirou glances at the park exit behind him; it’s a bit far. He pockets the knife and flexes his hands a few times, ready to curl them into fists at a moment’s notice. “Could be better. Who’s asking?”

“I was just passing by.”

“Passersby don’t typically stroll around dark parks after midnight hiding their faces.”

“My apologies, but I’d rather keep this on.” He makes no move to pull down the hood. However, he takes a few steps to the side and picks up another knife, rubbing a thumb over something etched into the handle. Kenjirou kicks himself for missing it earlier and tenses, but the stranger simply folds it closed and tosses it to him.“You fought off two armed thugs by yourself?”

Kenjirou catches the knife. He doesn’t put this one away. “Well what else does it look like?”

Even from beneath the hood’s shadow, there’s a glimmer of--something, he can’t quite figure out what--in the man’s stare. “You’re quite strong.”

He wasn’t looking to get hit on by strange men in parks tonight on top of the attempted theft, and with a disdainful snort makes his way towards the exit, already exhausted for the night. To his chagrin, pounding footsteps and a hollered “STOP RIGHT THERE IN THE NAME OF THE LAW" disrupt the quiet. With a reluctant groan, he stays put as another figure rushes towards them. One of the men on the floor starts to stir, so Kenjirou takes a moment to lightly press his foot on their back in a silent threat. They meekly sink back to the ground.

The patrolman arrives in a flurry of limbs, sweeping his flashlight wildly back and forth. “What happened here? Attempted assault? Robbery?”

“Just a pair of muggers.”

The officer nods his head emphatically. “I see, I see. Well then criminals, you’re under arrest!” There was almost a disturbingly gleeful spark in his eyes as he linked each suspect’s wrists together. 

Well, it was out of his hands now. “I’ll just be going now then-”

“Hold it! Drop that weapon!”

Ah crap, he’d forgotten about the knife. Well, knives. 

He doesn't know how such a loud person manages to sneak up on him, but he barely has time to register how close the police officer is until he feels the snap of cold metal around his wrist. The knife is snatched out of his hand. “What are y-"

“What were you doing with this, huh?” he asks, holding up the weapon. “To think I almost bought that story from someone wielding a knife! The two of you are equally suspicious, hanging out here in the middle of the night. It’s a good thing I had an extra set. You two’ll be sharing, though. Also, you there! Why is your hood up like that?”

“It’s cold outside.”

“Mind pulling it down? It’s rude to hide your face like that, y’know? Especially from an officer of the law.”

A beat. Then, the hood is lowered and Kenjirou finds himself rather intimidated by olive eyes and a stoic expression. That said, he couldn’t be more than a few years older. A pair of earbuds wind their way around the man’s neck; he’s not close enough to hear what’s playing. 

The patrolman leans closer, squinting. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“No,” is the reply. The officer shrugs, rubbing his nose distractedly. 

“ _Well_ , since I didn't witness the proceedings firsthand, how am I to know that the robbers weren't actually you and this guy, huh? In fact, for all I know, maybe I just stopped a gang brawl before it got nastier!” The police officer crossed his arms, clearly smug about his counter. “I'm gonna to bring all of you in, just in case.”

“I’m not a criminal! I’m from th-” He hesitates. Admitting that he was from the police academy was risky. Technically, he’s out past dorm curfew and the potential ramifications of being taken back in this state could probably get him in serious trouble. “Anyway, I picked that up to keep away from the guy who was using it.”

“Yeah yeah we'll take your statement back at the station. Now wait here while I call backup to haul you all in.” He turns around, whipping out a radio communicator with unnecessary flourish. Clearly someone who became a cop after watching one too many crime dramas. He starts pacing away, likely confident that being handcuffed together would discourage them from running away. “Hey, Akaashi, you won’t believe what just happened!”

“You can’t be serious,” he hears himself mutter, sinking to the ground. The guy he’s handcuffed to follows the drag of the short chain until they’re both crouched on the asphalt path. “That idiot can’t possibly be a real cop.”

“I would not label him as an idiot; he managed to get past both your defenses as well as mine to put these on. Also, he’s not the worst I’ve come across. There are far less savory characters out there. ” 

The stranger wasn’t making much of a fuss, considering they were about to be taken to a police station in chains. Clearly a shady character if he’d had prior run ins with the law. Possible scenarios start running through his head and he almost doesn’t hear the next two words.

“Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

“What?”

“My name. What’s yours?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Considering our circumstances, I thought it would be proper to at least know what to call you.”

It was doubtful that they were going to ever meet again after tonight, but just to be safe a pseudonym would do. “Yamada Koushirou.”

“How did you learn to fight?”

He thinks about the classes his mother strong-armed him into after she found him applying ointment to a nasty bruise on his side, earned from an unfortunate run in with a few upperclassmen. He also thinks about the satisfaction that came with the impact of his knuckles against someone’s face. There had been a home visit from his teacher--his mother had been proud, his homeroom teacher not so much. He doesn’t think his mother would appreciate hearing about this, though.

“Middle school was rough.”

“I see.” Ushijima nods in acknowledgment. It’s there again, that odd little gleam in his eye. Was it respect? It was oddly flattering. 

There’re several questions he wants to ask himself, namely the nature of Ushijima’s relationship with the law, but he doesn’t know what they could start. “What were you doing out this late?”

“I was out on a run. And yourself?”

He glances to the convenience store bag still lying on the ground. He tries not to sound too sullen. “I lost track of time and missed dinner so I was starving. Still am, actually.”

“It’s dangerous out at night, right now. You would have been better off waiting until morning proper.”

“You think I didn’t get that already, after all this?” he bites back testily. 

Kenjirou’s not sure that the other man heard him, as Ushijima’s rummaging around in the pockets of his jacket, causing Kenjirou’s handcuffed arm to jerk around slightly to follow the movements. After a moment, he draws out a slim packet. 

“Have this.”

“What is it?”

“Dried plum candy.”

Only old people ate those and he was positive this guy couldn’t be much older than Kenjirou was. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though. He sighs as he accepts the gift. “Thanks.”

He tears open the wrapping and pops a piece into his mouth. The combination of sour and sweet on his tongue is not unpleasant. It soothes the slight ache he’s been feeling in his stomach, which is a bonus.

As he’s chewing, a short trill of musical notes pipe up from Ushijima’s direction. “Please wait a moment.”

Kenjirou rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s not like I’ll be going anywhere.” 

Ushijima starts reaching into the back pocket of his pants with the hand cuffed to Kenjirou’s but seems to think better of it and switches. He pulls out his phone to read the text, then after a few swipes brings it to his ear. “Goshiki, it’s me. I’m alright, but bring your things; I’ll explain once we meet you there.” The phone returns to his pocket, and Ushijima stands up, dusting the back of his pants. His left hand, the one currently linked to his own right hand, is held out to him. Kenjirou eyes it inquisitively.

“Do you want to stay here?” 

No is the obvious answer but he’s not sure he wants to follow this guy, either. Still, one option would clearly save him from a greater deal of trouble. 

Grabbing Ushijima’s hand, Kenjirou carefully maneuvers himself up to his feet, using the taller man’s weight as an anchor to steady himself. “Better hurry before that guy notices.”

Ushijima nods and tugs them past a hedge, away from the entrance where the officer is standing with his back to them, obliviously chattering away to his coworker over the phone. There is no clear path, but it isn’t long until he guides them to a clearing. A figure stands stiffly at attention beneath a towering oak, his dark hair shaped into a severely antiquated bowl cut. Probably the Goshiki he’d been talking to earlier over the phone. He perks up when their rustling alerts him to their arrival and jogs over, stopping short when he spots Kenjirou standing beside Ushijima. 

“Who's the kid, boss?” 

A kid. He was just called a kid by a teenager. The beginnings of a retort are at the tip of his tongue, but they come out as a strangled string of gibberish when he feels a hand that doesn’t belong to him reaching into the pocket of his hoodie. 

“Sorry.” The low apology brushes against his temple as Ushijima brings out the knife that had still been in his pocket, handing it to Goshiki, who studies it the same way Ushijima did earlier. “This is Yamada Koushirou. I came across him during my run, incidentally having taken care of a couple members from the Kumamoto group.”

Goshiki clicks his tongue, pocketing the knife. “Ugh, those bastards have been encroaching on our territory more and more often, recently,” he grumbles. “Anyway, what did you need me to take care of?”

Wordlesslessly, Ushijima lifts their linked wrists together. Goshiki’s eyes widen. “I can’t believe it. How did they manage to cuff you, boss?”

“I’ll explain later, but for now I’d like to get out of these.”

“Yessir!” 

The cuffs come off, and Kenjirou rubs his wrist lightly, the lingering chafe from the metal a sensation he never wants to experience again. He startles when Ushijima takes his hand, brushing a calloused thumb over the reddened indents in his skin. 

“It seems fine. You might feel some discomfort for another half hour or so, but we weren’t in them for very long so the marks should fade soon.” He relinquishes his hold and turns to Goshiki. “We need to talk.”

Ushijima and his friend--or possibly underling if he had to guess--walk a few steps away, the former speaking quietly to the younger man, whose expression gradually sours as he listens. Kenjirou’s neck and ears are warm and he hates being left adrift. He decides to cut his lost time for the night and slips away.

Despite his exhaustion, he manages to sneak back to his dorm room. He doesn’t bother shedding anything more than his jacket before falling into bed with a groan. Eventually, he rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he processes the last few hours. It’d been a close call. He doesn’t know what would have happened without the backwards serendipity of Ushijima’s presence. He was almost done with training, and to get in trouble over something so trivial as sneaking out past curfew would have been a powerful blow to his pride. It’s within the last few moments before his consciousness slips that it finally occurs to him.

Shiratorizawa. The organization that had been in the news recently after several thousands of their members had splintered off into a new group under the gang’s former second-in-command, Yuutarou Aozaki. Though exact details on the fallout between Aozaki and the current head, Akane Ushijima, were unknown, fears of a potential gang war between the Shiratorizawa and Kumamoto gangs had led to increased vigilance among law enforcement across the region. 

And now it seemed like he’d beaten the daylights out of a few members from that splinter group, who knew? It wasn’t as if they’d remember him, or if anything have the guts to whine about getting tossed around by some civilian (which he still was at the moment, for all accounts and purposes). As for whether the Ushijima he’d met had any relation...

“Best not to think about it,” he mumbles into the dark, turning over to his other side while wrapping his blanket around himself and closing his eyes. He falls asleep, the taste of candied plum still on his tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Kenjirou's first day of work and Goshiki doesn't understand the appeal of hipster coffee shops.

The Kumamoto group’s swelling ranks and Shiratorizawa’s attempts to quell their cancerous growth are an open secret, becoming a sort of reality television phenomenom discussed as casually as the weather by people on the street. Kenjirou doesn’t actively seek out information on Shiratorizawa, but gang war rumors continue to simmer beneath the city surface, occasionally bursting onto the prime time news reports he watches during dinnertime. It’s white noise in the background of his own busy life; that evening’s incidental meeting with an Ushijima becomes a distant memory in the flurry of activity leading up to the end of his training at the officer academy. 

He feels slightly dazed the day of graduation, cap in hand and his uniform pressed into a crisp silhouette, but also very relieved. From here on out he’d have a steady income and a job he could be proud of. There would be nothing else to worry about but a predictable cycle of neighborhood patrols, filing lost and found reports, and occasionally brushing up on his limited English skills to inform tourists of the whereabouts of the nearest train station. Perhaps he’d take up an administrative position later on once he’d taken a few management classes.

His assigned _kōban_ is a mere fifteen minute walk from his apartment. The commute gives him time to calm the slightly nervous thrum under his skin--first day jitters and all that--and also observe the area he’ll be patrolling. The foot traffic is light this morning, as he only spots a few old ladies taking their morning stroll. Understandable, since by this hour students should already be in class. He does note a sizable crowd milling about inside one of the more modern looking coffee shops. The sign is sleek, a curving filligree leaf engraved in turquoise against a white square. Absolutely pretentious.

The _kōban_ itself, when he finds it, is a stout little affair moulded of glass, metal, and brick. It’s cozily nestled between a Lawson’s and a ramen shop, not too far from an intersection. The interior is the exact same as every other one he's been inside: plain white walls, yellowing linoleum floor, a few chairs. The usual phone sits atop the reception desk, and there is a simple sign with instructions on how to use it in case of emergencies. The lone officer slouched behind the desk looks up when he enters, and with a soft huff places the book he'd been reading facedown. The cover is hidden by generic brown bookstore wrapping. 

Kenjirou bows slightly to him. “Shirabu Kenjirou, I’ll be starting here today. Please take care of me.”

The officer leans backward in his chair, giving him a cursory once-over as he scratches his chin. “Kawanishi Taichi, same here I guess. Yamagata and Semi are out patrolling, but feel free to relax in the meantime.” He motions to the door behind him. “Break room’s out back. There's a hot water kettle, but if you want better coffee than the instant there’s a shop around the corner.” 

And with that, his co-worker’s already returned to his book. Clearly he intended to push the rest of his orientation to the other officers he’d be working with. Hopefully they’d be more welcoming that this lazy prick.

 

**

 

The coffee is terrible. He makes a mental note to try out the cafe sooner rather than later.

 

**

 

Kenjirou doesn’t realize that he’d nodded off until he’s woken up by sounds of conversation, muffled by the closed door. He checks for any drool on his cheek while straightening himself up, grateful that there were no marks on his face from resting his cheek against the table. There’s a light click just before the door swings open and two officers, Kawanishi trailing behind. The one who opened the door strides to him in several quick steps.

“It’s good to meet you, newbie. I’m Yamagata Hayato; welcome to the team,” booms the older looking one, brown hair slicked back under his cap. Kenjirou moves to bow, but instead his hand is caught in a vicegrip. “What was your name, again?”

“Shirabu Kenjirou, sir,” he answers, wincing slightly. Kenjirou glances away and makes eye contact with the last officer, who gives him a brief nod.

“You can call me Semi. Try not to slack off too much your first week, alright?” 

As if he didn’t come in and see Kawanishi, an officer on duty, sitting around reading at the front desk. 

Yamagata releases his hand, only to slap him several times on the back in what was probably supposed to be a comradely manner. He coughs slightly. “Shirabu, how do you feel about meat?” 

“It’s okay…?”

“Good, let’s have a welcome party after work, then. You’re pretty scrawny, kid, so it would be wise to get some substance on those bones!” Another short, particularly strong series of back slaps. “But before that,” Yamagata loops an arm around Kenjirou’s shoulder and guides him back to the entrance, “I want you to go with Kawanishi on his patrol shift. Get to know our little slice of the city. Hey, Kawanishi!”

In the span of time between the arrival and introductions from Yamagata and Semi, it seems Kawanishi’d hidden his book away as he stands empty handed at the open door. His expression remains just as impassive as when they’d first exchanged pleasantries, and Kenjirou wonders if boredom is just his default. 

“What did you need?”

“Take Shirabu-kun here with you, let him get a lay of the land. We’re going to Monzo after the next shift comes in for hand-off, alright?”

Kawanishi gives a short nod of assent, tugging his cap just a bit lower over his face before he starts walking. Shirabu doesn’t quite stumble, but it does take a few steps for him to catch up with Kawanishi’s faster pace. 

The first few minutes of walking are quiet, though not necessarily uncomfortable. Still, it would be wrong to not take advantage of the opportunity to build rapport, especially since they’d be in close quarters for extended periods of time. “So, Kawanishi-senpai, how long have you been working here?” 

“About half a year ago, give or take. Also, just Kawanishi is fine.”

“I see. Well, do you have any tips for patrolling?”

“It’s mostly common sense.”

Kenjirou waits a few beats, wondering if his co-worker would elaborate. He doesn’t. “Such as?”

He actually seems to consider his answer, head tilted up as if trying to recall any advice. They reach the end of a block, and by the time they turn the corner Kenjirou’s about to just give up on conversations with the man altogether.

“Do your best to get to know the people in our neighborhood. It’s small enough, and the locals are friendly. Tell people to pick up their litter. Most of the fights you’ll have to intervene during will probably be nothing more that playground spats over who plays with the ball. Just be yourself and you’ll probably be fine.”

By the book, but it really was just common sense. 

Kawanishi then sends him a rather pointed glance. “As a side note, don’t let the other two see you slacking if you can help it.”

Kenjirou scoffs inwardly at the pot calling the kettle black, but decides to keep the peace. Changing conversation tracks, he asks, “What were you reading earlier, by the way?”

“The new Narumi Detective Agency novel.”

“Ah, I’ve heard of that series! Are you a mystery fan?” 

“Not particularly.”

“What got you to read it then?”

“It was the number one seller at the bookstore.”

“Oh,” he says. He tries not to let his frustration at yet another aborted conversation thread color his response. Perhaps he was the type to only talk about work.

This was going to be a long patrol.

 

**

 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tsutomu catches himself mid-foot tap and checks his watch. Ushijima-san was still at the counter, waiting for his usual order while Tsutomu is tasked to stand guard at their usual little nook on the second floor. He never quite understood the appeal of waiting so long for a cup of coffee. This held especially true at this shop. It seemed like every time his superior stepped through the door, the moment Oikawa spotted him from behind the counter he would stop whatever he was doing just to grumble and express his apparent disdain for the boss’s presence. More specifically, his choice of drink. 

The last time he had come along, Tsutomu remembers watching in horror as Oikawa aimed a tea towel for his leader’s face the instant the first syllables in “Americano” had passed his lips. Of course, Ushijima had readily caught and returned it to Iwaizumi after neatly folding it. That said, for reasons that remained a mystery to Tsutomu, Oikawa has never explicitly told him to leave.

He remembers feeling offended on his superior’s behalf the first time he came, arguing that he could find a much better place to get his coffee fix. 

“Oikawa is one of the best at what he does.” He’d said no more on the matter.

He’d had a sip. It tasted just as bitter as any other coffee he’d had before, though he would never admit it aloud. Honestly, he wonders if it’s a coffee person thing. Something like hot chocolate sounded much more appealing where hot drinks were concerned, or even tea.

He feels his vigilance softening, sinking into his chair. The furniture here was quite plushly stuffed, as the space was tailored for whiling away long afternoons nursing a drink and chatting away or studying. The afternoon crowds are slowly growing as the locals return home, and Tsutomu watches from above as they pass by, his eyes slowly glazing over from the monotony. A slip of blue uniforms catch his eye on the sidewalk across the street, and he bristles. He tenses even more when a hand taps his shoulder.

“What’s the matter, Goshiki? Y’look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Oh, it was just Tendou coming back from the restroom. He glances around for any nearby customers; confirms there are none. “Tendou-san, I spotted a couple of police officers outside.” 

“Hmm? Where--ah, there they are.”

Tendou’s sing-song hum when he finds them tell him that they are no threat, and Tsutomu allows himself to relax. Looking closer, though, the smaller one looks familiar. He tries running the face against his memories to see if anything pops up, and when it clicks his eyes widen just a fraction and he slams his hands on the low wooden table. 

“It’s that guy from the other night!”

Tendou’s got one eyebrow raised, so he elaborates. “Remember when I told you about how the boss was handcuffed to some stranger a few months ago in the middle of his run? And we were all surprised that anyone was even able to get handcuffs on him in the first place? That’s the stranger, the one that beat up a couple of Kumamoto members.”

“Who was beating up a couple of Kumamoto members?” 

Ushijima had arrived. He was also peering out the window now, a small tray of two steaming mugs in his hands.

“I saw the man from the park just now,” he answers. He feels his lip curl downward in disappointment. “It turns out he’s a cop, too. He was patrolling with another guy from the koban a few blocks down.”

“Is that so?”

Ushijima’s gaze lingers on the figures below for several moments more before he peels his attentions back to them, setting down the mugs and slowly lowering himself into the chair opposite Goshiki. Tendou takes the one to his right, plopping down with a light thump. As per usual, aside from his Americano order, Oikawa has pushed an extra drink. In an almost childish display of rebellion, it’s yet another frothy antithesis to plain espresso and hot water. Today’s design is a mandala, multicolored dots and swirls of milk creating a small universe in a cup. No wonder they had to wait for so long.

Ushijima takes a sip of his Americano. “Oikawa says it’s a Spanish latte.”

“Sometimes, considering how much effort he puts into these things, I honestly can’t tell if that guy likes you or hates you,” mutters Tendou. He glances at Tsutomu, quick gestures asking if he wanted to take the freebie. When he shakes his head (he only likes the ones without coffee), Tendou pinches the cup’s handle and draws it closer to himself. 

Tsutomu fidgets slightly in his chair, drumming his fingers against his thigh. “So, are we going to do anything about that cop? He knows your face.”

“Leave him be. There are more important things to worry about right now.” 

Ushijima sets down the mug; his hands return together, loosely folded in his lap. 

“I’ve already talked about this with Reon, but now that we’ve confirmed it with the upper levels it’s time that you also know. As you are both aware, the Kumamoto group has been trying to tear into this area, long established as being under Shiratorizawa's protection. The Head has decided it’s been a nuisance for long enough--we’ll be in charge of coordinating a clean sweep.” There’s a particularly stern emphasis on the word “clean” and he’s looking directly at Tendou.

In the chair beside him, Tendou curls in from his slouch. There is something different about him, in his posture and overall counternance, a photo filtered into sharper relief. He licks his lips. “When do we start?”

 

******

 

“Cheers!” 

“Cheers,” echoes Kenjirou, tipping his beer glass just enough to clink gently with the other three. 

They’re seated at a cramped wooden table near the back of the restaurant, a barbeque grill at the center giving off waves of heat that compounds the stickiness of being in close quarters with so many people. The meat’s just started to brown, but Yamagata’s already diving in to scoop several pieces onto Kenjirou’s plate despite his (politely worded) protests. He doesn’t interact often with his extended family, but it reminds him of what a doting relative would do. Semi’s already ordering more brisket while Kawanishi multitasks between nursing his liquor and flipping the meat over to cook on the other side, the fat sizzling when it hits the grill. 

Several plates in, Yamagata asks, “So, Shirabu-kun, what brought you to the force? Childhood dream? Family?” 

“Family.” Kenjirou considers how truthfully he wants to answer the question, but being the lightweight he is his beer-loosened tongue betrays him. “I wanted to be comfortable, I guess. Civil service keeps the parents off my back and puts a decent amount in my bank account.”

“Wow, and here I was expecting some kind of sappy sob story from you. You’re pretty pragmative.”

“Well, it’s not like our reasons were any different,” notes Semi. His partner makes a token noise of protest.

“My clan’s got a lot of people in the force, I’m continuing a grand tradition!”

Semi rolls his eyes, but surprisingly it’s Kawanishi who leans over and stage whispers to Kenjirou, “He’s from a family of farmers.”

“I heard that, Kawanishi.” Yamagata doesn’t deny it, though, so it’s possibly true.

Kenjirou takes a sip of beer to chase another piece of meat, then turns to Semi. “How long have the three of you worked here?”

“Yamagata and I started at about the same time. I’d say it was about two and a half years ago? Kawanishi’s been here about half a year. We’ve had a few other folks come and go.”

Kenjirou’s mind wanders back to the night he snuck out of the dorms, something he hadn’t thought about in months. The park he’d cut through wasn’t too far from here, and he briefly wonders if that officer worked at the same _kōban_ before. The follow up questions from his co-workers about the circumstances and almost-arrest would be a pain to answer, though. Maybe another time.

“It’s a good neighborhood,” says Yamagata proudly. “All the locals are nice. Sometimes we play pick-up games with the locals at the community gym on our off days, you should come with us next time.”

It wouldn’t hurt to get a little exercise. “I’d be glad to.”

“Great! Is there any sport you’re particularly good at?”

“Not really.” He should have expected that question. Kenjirou keeps his tone neutral, though he feels his heart rate speed up. “I played a little volleyball in high school.” 

Semi seems pleased by this revelation, as he asks, “What position?”

“Setter.” Reserve setter, but they don’t need to know.

“Oh hey, he’s the same as you, Semi.” Yamagata grins. “I call dibs.”

“You’re just mad because last time you were stuck with that mouthy high schooler for your team.”

“I freely admit that.”

As if trying to passive-aggressively drown out the sound of their bickering, Kawanishi dumps more meat on the grill. It sizzles loudly for a few moments before the flame returns to a comfortable state. Shirabu sips at his beer, smiling behind the glass.

It seemed like he’d get along here just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More explanation about what a _kōban_ is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers are bad. Coffee is good, but not when you have a hangover. Oh, and our protagonists reunite.

When Kenjirou wakes up on the floor of his apartment’s foyer, the inside of his mouth feels dry and cottony. He shifts upright with a low groan, clutching his temple. 

The shift system at the _kōban_ worked in threes: one twenty-four hour shift, a day off, and a regular eight hour shift. Rinse and repeat until you retired or moved up. Having a day off today seemed to release any inhibitions his senpai had about thoroughly imbibing, along with goading him into a drinking contest later that night. He can’t remember who won. 

He'd somehow managed to navigate his way home afterwards, but it seems he hadn’t quite made it to his bed. He props himself against the wall and carefully slides his body up. It's a terrible mistake, as it leaves him nauseous. Just how much beer had they gotten through?

The clock on the wall tells him that it’s already late in the morning. He stumbles his way to the kitchenette to gather painkillers and a water bottle, leaning heavily against the counter as he chases the ibuprofen with a few swigs of liquid. The emptied water bottle is tossed into the recyclables, and he wanders to the bathroom on slightly steadier legs to wash up. As he brushes his teeth, he gazes tiredly at the rumpled figure reflected back at him in the mirror. He desperately wants breakfast. Something western, like eggs and ham with toast. And something else to drink besides water.

Aside from a row of bottled water lined up against the door, there’s nothing in the fridge, as usual. His meals have been limited to convenience store bentou and last night’s restaurant outing for the past week, moreso out of laziness than anything else. He’s been meaning to change that habit, but this is not the morning to start. 

The cafe he passed by on the way to work comes to mind. Considering how big it was, surely they had a kitchen--and by extension something to eat. 

He gives his shirt an tentative sniff. Wrinkling his nose at the stench of ethanol, he pulls it off and shrugs on a new one, layering jacket over it. After combing his fingers through his hair a few times, the image he sees looking back at him seems a little more human, even if the headache hasn’t quite gone away yet. He splashes his face with water once more for good measure before heading for the door. The humidity of the summer morning immediately envelops him as he steps out. He fails to hold back a sneeze, his body protesting the need to adjust from his air conditioned apartment.

**

Kenjirou pulls the coffee shop’s door open with a short grunt. The scent of baked goods and brewing coffee draw him forward as he steps in, and he can’t help but release a blissful sigh. When he gets in line, the front counter is a good six or seven groups away. Shuffling forward, he tilts his head up to read the surprisingly vast menu on the blackboard, full of fancy names and descriptions. His head begins to throb more persistently, dismayed by the informational overload, and he’s finding it difficult to concentrate on the words.

“Rough night?”

He blinks, standing at the front of the line. The queue had moved surprisingly fast.

Like the other staff he’d seen milling about, the man at the register is wearing a white button up under a black vest, though in his case the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The silver tag reads “Matsukawa”. He’s looking at him with a touch of concern, the kind you’d spare for small children after they’d dropped their ice cream.

“More excitement than I’m used to. Do you have any anything good for hangovers?”

“Considering where we are, I probably shouldn’t mention that coffee is a diuretic and would just make it worse, should I?” The cashier flashes him a wry smile. “We have green tea with honey and ginseng, though. And our owner bakes some damn good ham and egg croissants if you need food to go with that.”

Well, he couldn’t argue with that pitch. He pulls out his wallet. “Since I’m already here, I guess.”

“Great choice,” says Matsukawa, punching in the order. “Can I get a name?”

“Shirabu.”

“Alright, it’ll be ready for you in a few moments. Feel free to hang out at the pick up station down there in the meantime.” 

He points to the end of the counter, just past the pastry display, where a small crowd hovers near a flashy looking brunet as he pours out a latte design. His tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth as he carefully navigates the shape of the leaves he’s drawing. When finished, he hands it to the waiting customer with a flourish and his audience claps. The staff member next to him finishes sliding the last tray of cakes into the glass case before spinning around to chew the guy out for blocking traffic flow. The other only replies with a simple, “Sorry, Iwa-chan. Perfection takes time!”

“That’s, Manager to you, Oikawa!” he replies, grabbing the barista in a headlock and giving his hair an impressively mighty ruffle. There are regulars in the crowd who apparently see this happen all the time, because they laugh good-naturedly as Oikawa wails about his hours of careful styling having gone to waste. Another barista brings out a tray and calls Kenjirou’s name, and he mutters apologies as he elbows his way past to take it out of their hands with a quick nod of thanks.

From there he wanders into the lounge area, a sea of stools and chairs of varying shapes and sizes. Despite the hodgepodge of seat choices, it maintains a certain cohesive aesthetic through a limited palette of blues and whites. In contrast, the bar counter, tables and the shop’s exposed beams are all lacquered a deep, rish brown. A second floor overlooks the ground floor and appears similarly furnished. 

Most tables are already occupied upstairs as well, but he swoops in just as one is vacated by a pair of businessmen. He sets down his tray, proud of himself since nothing had spilled, and sinks down into the chair. Looking around, he realizes with satisfaction that it was a prime location, a corner next to the window that allowed him to observe passersby down below. He watches a pair of ginger-haired kids in green flowershop aprons, probably siblings, race down the sidewalk with armfuls of sunflowers. 

Back home, next to the kitchen sink, there’s a small vase his mother pushed onto him when he first moved into his new apartment, insisting that he find something to brighten the otherwise sparse interior. He finds sunflowers too loud, but a surely there must be other varieties available at this time of year. He makes a mental note to visit the flowershop later--hopefully there’d be something his entry-level employee status could afford. He’s lost in thought, estimating costs, when he hears someone approach. 

“May I sit here? There are no more seats left.”

“Sure,” he answers distractedly. There is a murmur of thanks and the muted thud of a serving tray as it is placed on the table. When the sunflowers are out of sight he turns back to pick up his croissant, only for it to drop back on its plate as he rises swiftly from his chair, the legs groaning in protest against the wood floor. He never forgets a face, or a name. “What the hell.”

Across from him, one Ushijima Wakatoshi’s eyes widen ever so slightly. “Ah.”

It’s been months since the incident. He does _not_ want to spend his first day off dealing with this. Nope. Kenjirou ignores the insistent pain at his temple as he hastily grabs his jacket, which he’d draped on the chair, and is moments from escape when a firm touch at his elbow stops his momentum. 

“Wait, you don’t have to go. You were here before I was.” 

“It’s fine, I was just leaving.” 

“You haven’t touched your sandwich yet and the tea is still steaming. It could not have been more than a few minutes since you sat down.” Ushijima’s hand falls to his side with the deliberate lethargy of a man in the presence of a startled animal. “Stay, you don’t need to leave on my account.”

It kind of pisses him off that he’s being miscontrued as something so delicate. “It’s not because I’m afraid of you, you know.”

“I do. That night would have ended differently, otherwise.”

Kenjirou can’t resist raising an eyebrow. “Thanks for the compliment, I think. Are you always this forward with people you barely know?”

“If they seem worth my time.” 

Ushijima’s gaze never wavers. Kenjirou gets the feeling that he’s being perfectly serious and that, in its own way, is worthy of some semblance of respect. Finally, he simply throws his shoulders up in an exaggerated shrug before falling back into his seat, arms folded over his chest. “Whatever.”

Ushijima seems satisfied, as he sits back in his own chair and pulls out his phone, seemingly intent on his promise not to otherwise disturb Kenjirou. Kenjirou fidgets with his croissant, taking several bites. 

He’s an officer, a representative of the law. He was almost positive that the man sitting across from him was yakuza. 

All the same, he’s not the ungrateful type. Ushijima’d helped him out of a tight spot that night, and honestly he’s technically off duty so it’s not like he’s obligated to do anything (or so he’s going to tell himself). He’s still curious, however. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Do you belong to the Shiratorizawa-gumi? 

A heavy pause. Ushijima’s looking around to the customers filling the tables nearby. There are a couple of girls engaged in a rapidfire discussion about something-or-other at the one closest to them. Further away are several tables of students in varying stages of study: sleeping, writing notes, or furiously typing away with earbuds jammed in. He meets Kenjirou’s eyes. 

“Yes.”

Well, shit. He honestly hadn’t been expecting a straight answer. “Your last name had me wondering if you were related to the current head somehow.”

“She took me in when I was young. I owe her my life.” Ushijima leans forward to pick up one of the mugs on his tray. The man must love the coffee here if he’d ordered two for himself.

“That’s a watery defense if you ever go to court, claiming that you work to repay a debt.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Is this area part of your territory or something?”

“The businesses in this region are under our protection, if that is what you ask.” Ushijima takes another sip of coffee. The ceramic chimes as it returns to its place on the table. “When there are disputes that the police cannot handle or fail to address in a timely manner, they seek our help. It’s quite common in certain parts of the city, though not so much here.”

He might not be as passionate about his profession, but damned if he was going to take that comment lying down. “You said it before yourself; there’re plenty of perfectly capable officers in the force as well. And what about the rumours about the war between you guys and the Kumamoto group? Are you going to leave a mess bodies for them to find somewhere by the side of the river one day?” 

Ushijima doesn’t answer, and in the ensuing silence Kenjirou brings his own mug to his lips, but to his dismay it’s empty. He didn’t realize how thirsty he’d been. Sighing, he puts it back down with a clatter. 

Across from him, Ushijima leans forward.

“If there is no other option,” he finally replies, sliding the other cup in his tray towards Kenjirou, an open invitation. It’s a latte of some kind, likely another work by the barista he’d seen earlier based on the level of detail. When Kenjirou doesn’t merely stares at it, he continues, “It’s not poisoned.”

He would laugh if he didn’t know that it’d worsen his headache. “I didn’t think it was. It’s just that I was told that coffee and hangovers don’t mix well.”

“I see.” Ushijima turns and waves down a wandering staff member, who seems to recognize him and rushes immediately to his side. “Green tea, please. Honey and ginseng.”

Before he can protest that he can get his own drink, the server nods and heads downstairs to the kitchen. Kenjirou watches them go, and looks back to Ushijima, somewhat puzzled but also slightly suspicious.

“Wait, how did you know what I ordered before?”

“I didn’t. Several of my subordinates order it from time to time for similar reasons. I assumed that’s what they recommended to you as well.” 

For all the wariness he feels about how nice this guy was acting, Kenjirou is finding it impossible to feel a bit pleased. Yakuza or not, Kenjirou’s sure that if Ushijima wanted to take him out, he’d have been tossed into the nearby river in several garbage bags long before he even registered the other man’s presence earlier. A small pool of guilt builds at the pit of his stomach for subjecting Ushijima to an interrogation.

“Thanks,” he says. He offers a hesitant smile, his own peace offering. “For the other day, too. I don’t think I ever said that.”

Ushijima’s expression doesn’t soften per se, but the atmosphere seems to clear. “It was just a matter of convenience.”

“Geez, learn to take a compliment,” he sighs, tension loosening from his shoulders. As Kenjirou snaps out a crick in his shoulder, he remembers one other thing that they needed to address. “You can call me Shirabu, by the way. Yamada Koushirou isn’t my real name.”

The other man seems a touch bemused. “What prompted you to reveal your real name to me now and not that night?”

Kenjirou scratches his cheek. Why _did_ he find it important to correct that misconception? “I just didn’t feel like giving away my actual name so easily. Still don’t, to be honest, but you don’t seem to mean any harm. At least not to me.”

“...I see.”

**

The conversation shifts. 

Kenjirou shares highlights from his first outing with his new co-workers, steering clear of mentioning the exact nature of his work. In retrospect, Yamagata had probably been the root cause for most of the antics, including but not limited to a rousing rendition of some classic _enka_ song. Ushijima in turn listens and shares details about his closest subordinates. Goshiki is like a younger brother to him and tends to unconsciously speak at louder volumes when excited. One of Tendou’s self-proclaimed special skills is always winning at rock-paper-scissors; he always manages to guess what his opponent would throw out.

The fresh serving of tea’s almost cooled completely by the time Kenjirou rants about his attempt to hold a conversation with Kawanishi longer than three lines apiece. At the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of Ushijima’s lips he feels his own mouth curving upwards in mirth. His head feels clearer as well, so it seems like he’s fully recovered from last night’s escapades.

Not long after, though, a redhead saunters up behind Ushijima, clapping him on the shoulders. “A~~lright, sorry to crash this date, but I’m gonna need to borrow the boss--ah, Ushijima here.”

“He already knows, Tendou.”

“This isn’t a date,” Kenjirou adds flatly. Tendou gives a tiny shrug. 

“Oh, well that makes things easier. Either way, boss here needs to get back to work, I’m afraid.” His eyes land on the latte, cold and still untouched. “Though if I may…?”

Ushijima gestures for him to go ahead and Tendou gleefully picks up the cup and saucer with the greatest delicacy, waltzing downstairs with it in his hands. “I’ll be waiting at the entrance after I finish with this.”

He exchanges a glance with Ushijima. “Does that always happen?”

Ushijima nods. “I only ordered the Americano. Oikawa, one of the owners, insists on giving me an extra drink every time. Tendou or one of the others usually take it for themselves.”

“Some kind of barista courting ritual?”

To Kenjirou’s surprise, Ushijima brings a hand up to his chin in what appears to be serious contemplatation. “I hadn’t thought of that. I merely assumed it was an attempt to have me try his specialty. He’s nationally renowned, after all.” 

“Why haven’t you ever tried any of them, then?”

Ushijima slides one finger around the rim of his empty mug, the corner of his lip turned downwards. “I don’t like coffee with milk.”

Kenjirou can’t help but laugh. The smile he gets back reaches Ushijima’s eyes; he’s clearly pleased that his humor was appreciated. It’s a little disarming, as Kenjirou feels warmth bubble in his chest. Instinct tells him that he is glimpsing a rare sight indeed. They both rise, and when Ushijima holds out his hand Kenjirou doesn’t hesitate to take it this time. “Well, I guess this is good-bye for now.”

“Yeah,” he answers. “If you ever feel like chatting again like this, I wouldn’t mind helping with any extra lattes.” He immediately kicks himself mentally for the lame reply, one that sounded like a pick up line no less. He adds hurriedly, “Waste not want not and all that.”

When he meets Ushijima’s eyes, he catches a brief flash of surprise in the other man’s expression before it disappears behind his otherwise stoic expression, which Kenjirou is beginning to realize is in fact his normal face. Ushijima then pulls out a pen from the pocket of his slacks and grabs a napkin. He starts scribbling, and Kenjirou’s fascinated by the novelty of seeing a left-handed person write. The pen cap clicks shut, and the napkin is pressed into Kenjirou’s palm. “I’ll see you again, soon.” 

And with that, he walks downstairs. Kenjirou returns to his chair while holding up the napkin, blinking at the numbers drawn in steady, broad lines before he slides it into the pocket of his jacket.

From his vantage point, he watches Tendou skip over to a waiting car that’s dark, sleek and probably worth more than the cost of his rent. Ushijima follows behind at a more sedate pace, and slides into the back seat after Tendou opens the door for him. 

“Ah curses, it looks like Ushiwaka gave the latte away again. Maybe next time.” 

The words are spoken loftily, but the intent to draw Kenjirou's attention is clear. Kenjirou turns his head and finds the brunet barista standing beside the table, watching Ushijima’s car drive off, chocolate eyes sharp despite the casualness of the rest of his body language. He finds himself bristling inwardly. The calculating look on the barista's face melts into a bright customer service grin when he turns to meet his eyes. “I was wondering why he would order something other than his usual. I haven’t seen you around here before, Hangover-chan.” 

_How had he known about that? The guy at the register?_

“It’s Shirabu, and I moved here recently.”

“I see, welcome then! How did you like your order?”

He answers truthfully, still feeling slight whiplash from watching the change in the man’s countenance. “It was good, thanks.”

“Glad to hear that~” Oikawa picks up the tray Ushijima had left, moving items around to stack it atop several more he’d collected, but not before slipping something from beneath the saucer into the pocket of his apron. Kenjirou isn’t fast enough to see what it is. “If I may say something though, Shiro-chan.”

“Shirabu.”

“Shirabu-chan. You seem a bit smitten-- 

Shirabu opens his mouth but Oikawa cuts him off. 

“Ah-ah, this is important. Ushiwaka, loathe as I may be to admit it, has qualities that can easily draw people in. But I think it’s important you remember that people like that can easily lead to trouble as well.” He huffs slightly when he hoists the trays up and waves away a junior staff member who approaches him to help. When Oikawa tilts his head back, and there’s a knowing smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “Best be careful now.”

Oikawa whistles as he walks downstairs, and Shirabu relaxes back into his seat. He hadn’t even noticed when his posture had shifted, straightened. Picking up the mug, he takes another sip. Even at room temperature, the ginseng burns a path down his throat. His mind is all the clearer for it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd planned to post this sooner but things were hectic while I was off gallivanting around on vacation and I couldn't quite find the time. But we're back! Next update is shaping up to be a mini-chapter (consider it a 3.5 if you'd like)


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